#zacel

❝ i SAAAAAAAAAAAID get away from me! or is that too difficult to understand? not that it would surprise me at all... ❞

✧*｡ ||   he sits, legs crossed & hands about ankles, looking childish as he watches the other below cliff & the various beasts that follow. naturally, one would assume help would be in order--- but the stranger looks quite capable of themselves at least at first glance. && also it’s rude to just jump in without asking( or so that’s the excuse he tells himself. ) hands move to cup about his mouth to let out a bit of yell,  ＂ oi, you want some help down there ?＂ // @zacel​ SC

        “ Life, as I see it, is all about farewells rather than reunions. ”  /  @zacel​

“Like me?”

          𝑬𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅 to befall parchment presented. The only means of communication from whence hearing of dear friend has been lost. Lost at the hands of a woman she’d sooner tear asunder were it not for countless pleas for otherwise. But even so, when her eyes fall upon scrawled words her heart seemingly sinks. A wave of emotions is roused midst breast && manifests in a long && drawn breath. To lose one of the senses so suddenly is naught to be wished on any. Resplendent gaze therein lingers that much longer upon each depicted syllable before drifting to meet his own. For so long an instance, she seemed lost to thought. But even in supposed thoughtful trance she mulls over the endless possibilities for the future. Coming to terms with an impending resolve making a home in her bones. She’d find another way that didn’t involve a pen.           Thusly, she leans inward albeit minimally. Lithe digits envelop pen to impose her own influence across page. Words with feeling, words wrought with meaning; they are genuine && telling of a brighter future. To uphold patience for a better tomorrow that isn’t as far away as it might seem. Accompanied by a reassuring nod whenever her posture corrects && eyes return to Titan therein.                                                    One day at a time.

          𝐋𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 && 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐬 at the motions of hands. Words pieced together with the likes of something he’s barely familiar with. He does his best, a ruffian at heart despite his militaristic stoicism. His hands attempt, failing half the way && attempting to speak in tandem to digits. Moreover as the inclination of any intimidation befalling this old soul---laughable, evident in the scoff filtering from throat.            “Me? Oh, no. No, no. Trust me, pal---nothin’ about you is scary.” He’s seen scary too many times. Up close && personal. && it stinks.